Schadenfreude
by Mockorange7
Summary: A snippet. Starring Schuldig.


_Schadenfreude:_

_A Schu-centric snippet_

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(1) Disclaimer: These characters, this universe, this concept—none of these are owned by me, and I have no claim to any of them. 

(2) Summary: A Schwartz snippet. Starring Schuldig. Unfinished, unbeta'd, unpolished. Really, this is just a Schuldig snippet. I mean, this is just the working title and a snippet from a larger thing I had been working on. There's a plot involving the rest of Schwartz too, but it comes later, is as yet unwritten, and the way things are right now, I can't be counted on to post anything, but I had this lying around and felt like looking at it. This is what would have been the intro, but consider it a stand-alone for now. It's dark and nasty. Rated R.

(3) Comments/Feedback: Like most authors, I adore feedback, both positive and negative and indifferent. If you read it, and wouldn't mind telling me, I'd very much appreciate it.

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The club was crowded, noisy, dark and perfect. Not quite upper-scale, but not rough enough that he couldn't find what he was looking for, every time. You'd think he'd gain a reputation, you'd think they'd remember—but he was better than that. They might think what they liked—_gaijin, _low-born, ugly, odd-looking, pesky kid—but he was better. He was better than _them_. 

Not that he couldn't do upper-scale—those women, rich and glossy, outwardly polished and professional--they were more work, but no better than anything else. He'd nothing against men either, and he had a couple of gay clubs he frequented; most of those men were both eager and easy. But tonight, he wasn't in the mood for wasted effort, nor was he in the mood for easy pickings. He was in the mood for just what he could find here. What he'd already found.

Schuldig smiled insipidly at the woman beside him. Late 20's ... nope, early 30's, slightly overweight, plain, dowdy. A poorly paid, mediocre secretary, with big fluffy dreams, but few possessions or acquaintances in the big city--and certainly no lover, no family, no children. No one, aside from her distant mother, to really miss her. Replaceable, expendable, pathetic. She was a virgin—big surprise--and a scared, boring one at that. He could see her turn it over in her mind, the question, and he knew he had her. _Will you come with me tonight?_

And he listened to her weigh the choice. One night of passion with this gorgeous young creature that seemed to like her, _her_, of all the more beautiful, more exciting, more interesting women sitting along the gleaming bar; this exotic, charming, thrilling man whispering impossible promises of pleasure in her ear and suggesting, as if he'd plucked it out of her deepest most secret desires (as indeed he had), all those dimly longed-for fantasies and barely formed delights that she guiltily thought about in the darkness of her bedroom …. that for one night—and maybe, maybe more-- she could be brave and beautiful and free and throw all inhibition to the wind ...

Weighed against caution, against prudence, against reason. Because another part of her--the sensible shoes, practical haircut, dutiful daughter who sent part of her meagre paycheque home every month part--was protesting, warning, telling her there was a catch .. it was too good to be true ... _he_ was too good to be truthful …

And this was the best moment. This moment, this was what it was all about—this sharply edged, delicious bliss of anticipation. Because whatever he'd told her until now, and whatever he might do to her after--this, this would always be her choice. Later, nothing would be. Because she didn't understand—her sheltered, naïve, pathetically simple mind could never comprehend the realities of the world he'd always known, and so she had no idea at all. Because he'd do everything he suggested. He'd do everything he promised. And then he'd do more. Later, she'd hate herself, crying in pain and humiliation, while he'd _make_ her beg for more. Force her into acts even the worst of her nightmares had not imagined possible, and then show her how he was just getting started. And afterwards, he'd be able to taste her horror and terror and shame for days, taste it on his tongue, savour it in his mind, cherish it in his soul. And relish her beautiful, lovely loss of innocence--and best of all, the _guilt. _The guilt of knowing, knowing she chose her own fate, and chose it freely. Because this moment, this choice, was hers and hers alone. Those were the rules of the game. And he'd have it no other way.

Schuldig smiled, confident, baring teeth, and carefully not looking at her. He knew she'd choose the risk. They always chose the risk.

The wrong choice.

Always.

The mind link tugged.

_Schuldig, I need you here._

_What? Now? Braaad ... please Brad, I'm …_

_I expect you in 10 minutes. _As firm a command as if it had been spoken.

And Schuldig sighed. Being Schwarz should be far more glamorous, he thought sulkily, than it was.

He didn't even bother smiling at the woman as he left, or paying the tab. She'd been lucky. He'd missed a night's worth of promising entertainment.

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_And that's all she wrote, folks ... please leave a comment if you can ..._


End file.
